The elation I felt when he finally let me touch him must be remotely akin to how it must have felt for Dian Fossey when one of the mountain gorillas she was studying in East Africa first reached out and touched her fingertips.

One spring day in 1994 I looked out my kitchen window, and there on the ground below me was a tattered looking black cat intently gazing back at me. As I watched him and absorbed what I was seeing I felt my heart break, and my eyes filled with tears.

He was a mess. He was an unaltered male  with many battle scars. The tips of his ears were missing which can mean only one thing in northern Minnesota¾they had been frostbitten. Later, I would learn that he also had a slash on his nose, from a fight no doubt, which ultimately needed reconstructive surgery. He had fleas, ear mites, broken teeth, and an upper respiratory infection that made face wet from watery eyes

He was wary and afraid of humans. I put food out for him every day for six months before he came close and let me touch him. It seemed he had been longing for the caresses of human hands all along, because when he finally let me pet him, his back came up to meet my hand.

Why he was a stray will forever remain a mystery. Maybe his owner died, and no one wanted to care for him. Maybe he was booted out or his owner moved and simply abandoned him

I do believe someone loved him before me because Scruffy was very endearing, and was a very well behaved house cat. Once he realized he was safe inside my home to stay he never again went anywhere near an open outside door or attempted to go back outside.

This raggedy-looking old cat nurtured and played with the many orphaned kittens I fostered for the local humane society, Friends of Animals. He would anchor a rambunctious squirming kitten to the floor with his powerful foreleg then tenderly give it a bath as lovingly and as gently any mother cat.

He was happy and playful even at his advanced age which was estimated to be about eight to ten years old when he entered my life. That is old for a cat living on his own outdoors. His favorite toy was a small wad of paper that he batted around the floor at blinding speeds. He knew the whir of an electric can opener was often synonymous with tuna or some other cat delight. He would awaken from a seemingly sound sleep and race into the kitchen to see if I had anything for him. He loved popcorn, chips, and most any people snack food.

I write in the past tense because in August of 2000, he became ill with an incurable liver disease. My intention was to bring him home to live out his last days, but when I went to the clinic to pick him up they told me he had a set back, and his prognosis was very poor. He was gravely ill. His chest was filling up with fluid that had to be aspirated with a needle and syringe so his lungs had room to expand. Now I was faced with having to make the gut-wrenching decision whether to mercifully end his life or continue treating him and prolong his misery.

Comfortable now, in my arms, he purred like he always did when he was being held or petted. He used to purr me to sleep at night, and he purred when I held him in my arms that last time and told him I loved him. Knowing that I was going to lose him was excruciating. I said good-bye to my old friend—my old Scruffy, and I buried my face in his fur and sobbed.

Armida Turk